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  CHARMING FALLS APART

  “Charming Falls Apart is the perfect comfort read. A smart and heartfelt ode to the healing power of friendship and the strength in reinvention. Fans of Sophie Kinsella will root for Allison James as she rebuilds her life on her own terms.”

  —Allie Larkin, internationally best-selling author of Swimming for Sunlight

  “A breezy read perfect for a summer day. So many young women rush to make a plan for how they think their lives should go without stopping to think about what will make them happy. We can all cheer for a heroine who loses it all and comes to realize she never wanted it anyway.”

  —Maria Murnane, best-selling author of the Waverly Bryson series

  “In addition to being a well-woven story about second chances and trusting your own instinct, Charming Falls Apart is also a love letter to the city of Chicago. One of my favorite things about the book was experiencing the city through Allison’s eyes. This book belongs at the top of your list of summer reads.”

  —Mary Chris Escobar, author of Neverending Beginnings

  Copyright © 2020 Angela Terry

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Published by SparkPress, a BookSparks imprint,

  A division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA, 85007

  www.gosparkpress.com

  Published 2020

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-68463-049-3

  ISBN: 978-1-68463-050-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906456

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Ray

  Happy Anniversary!

  Please be home, please be home, please be home, I pray while opening the front door to my condominium, keys in one hand as I precariously balance a box of “personal belongings” on my hip while kicking a second box over the threshold. Thankfully, Neil is sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Thank god you’re here!” I exhale, expecting him to relieve me—both of the box I’m holding and of my horrible day. Instead, Neil stays silently rooted to his seat, staring at his phone. He’s already changed out of his work clothes, the usual button-down shirt with slacks, and into an old T-shirt and his favorite pair of jeans, making me wonder how long he’s been home and if he listened to my voicemail.

  Receiving no help from my fiancé, I make my way inside with the door slamming shut behind me.

  I unceremoniously drop the first box onto the kitchen table with a thunk. “You’ll never believe what happened today.” Though the boxes should be some indication.

  Neil remains uncharacteristically quiet, still focused on his phone and not me—his lack of curiosity and eye contact makes me want to snatch the phone from his hand.

  “Well?” I prompt him.

  He swallows and finally meets my eye. “We need to talk.”

  While that phrase is never good to hear, it can’t be worse than what I just endured. Our wedding is only a month away; so, lately, that sentence, when uttered, means that something has gone wrong with one of our bookings or our parents or our surprisingly demanding guests.

  “Sure. Okay,” I say, wiping some dots of perspiration from my forehead with my now free hand. “But can I go first? It’s been a horrible day, and I can’t deal with wedding stuff right now.” This is an understatement.

  I walk over and deposit myself onto the sofa, kick off my shoes, and throw my arm over my eyes. I wait a couple seconds for Neil to come sit next to me. He doesn’t, so I just start talking. “Ugh. Where to begin?”

  Finally, I hear the kitchen chair scrape back and Neil’s footsteps. With my eyes still covered, I feel him standing over me. “No, Allison. I really need to talk to you first. This is important.”

  I sigh and give in. My news will have to wait.

  “Fine. Okay. What’s so important?” I say, removing my arm from my eyes and prepping myself for the latest wedding disaster. Since I’ve been the one dealing with the vendors, it must be a guest issue.

  “I can’t marry you,” he says, his voice sounding oddly strangled.

  I peer up at him. “Excuse me?”

  Neil clears his throat and, with more determination in his voice this time, repeats, “Allison, I can’t marry you.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t marry me?” I enunciate each word. What in the world is going on, now?

  “I can’t go through with the wedding.”

  Oh. It’s not much of an elaboration.

  Not this again, I think but do not say. These last few months, Neil has been stressed out by everything wedding-related—the cost of the invitations, whether we really needed a photographer and a videographer, or why I hired a band when his green-haired, multiple-pierced, eighteen-year-old cousin was an amateur DJ—when, really, all he has to do at this stage is show up wearing his suit at the appointed time on the appointed date. All my friends assured me though that this was normal guy-getting-married behavior and to not let it freak me out as well.

  I pat the side of the sofa next to me. “Neil, honey, sit down.”

  When he remains standing, I take a deep breath and say, “I know the wedding planning has been stressful. Trust me, there’ve been times I’ve wanted to call it off, too. But it’s almost over. In a month we’ll be at the finish line saying our ‘I do’s.’”

  “No. It’s not the wedding planning.” Neil shakes his head and takes a step back from the sofa. “I can’t marry you because I’m in love with someone else.”

  And for the second time today—

  The.

  World.

  Just.

  Stops.

  I open my mouth a couple times, but nothing comes out. Since I can’t seem to form words, I instead end up staring at him for several silent seconds while my heart beats wildly against my chest, and I wonder if today is simply a bad dream or a massive practical joke.

  Surely, I couldn’t have heard him correctly, but do I ask him to repeat the horrible words that I think I just heard? Turns out, I don’t have to.

  “I’m so sorry, Allison.” His eyes, bloodshot and drooping with contrition, remind me of my old Basset hound, Barry, when he was caught doing something he shouldn’t.

  He must feel safe that this news has rendered me immobile because he finally sits down next to me. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  My throat is tight and I’m not sure I can breathe. I search his eyes for confirmation of what is happening and manage to say in a small voice, “You’re calling off the wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s someone else?” I ask in an even smaller voice.

  He nods.

  “Oh.” I look away and stare into space at some point above his head.

  Quickly and nervously, he starts to explain—as if his explanation will soften the blow. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I would never want to hurt you.” Funny, I think, because you’re doing a good job of it now. “But it would be worse to continue our relationship and lead you on. It’s better to break up sooner rather than later with the wedding coming up and before everything becomes more complicated.”

  His words sound like a speech he has practiced, probably with the “someone else.”

  I still don�
�t have any words.

  “Allison,” he pleads, trying to evoke a response from me, but I refuse to look at him. “Al, please say something.”

  His mind is made up enough to call off our wedding and break my heart. I’m not sure what to say to that. How can you beg someone to stay with you once they’ve said they’re in love with someone else? It seems to be the definition of game over.

  Finally finding my voice, I manage to whisper, “Who are you in love with?”

  Neil is silent. My eyes drift back to his and I notice his eyes have grown wide. Fear.

  “Who are you in love with?” I ask again, a little louder this time.

  Neil stands up. With words so rushed they sound like one, he says, “I’m in love with Stacey.” And with that declaration, he backs up and grabs a bag that has been sitting in the hallway all this time and that I am just now noticing.

  Stacey. My maid of honor. Of course.

  “I’m sorry, Allison. I wish things weren’t ending like this.”

  His eyes meet mine for a heartbreaking second, and I believe him. Until, coward that he is, he breaks eye contact and then turns and hurries out the door—our door—before I can even tell him my big news.

  Once the door clicks behind him, I say aloud to no one, “I got fired today.” And, with that, the tears I’ve held in all afternoon come rushing out.

  I WAKE UP in the morning puffy-eyed and exhausted and hoping that yesterday was all a bad dream. I look over to where I’ve expected to see Neil the last five years. But his side of the bed is empty, and there are no head indentations on the pillow, or any indications that he slept there and simply woke up before me.

  I turn away and stare numbly at the ceiling for several eternal minutes before reaching for my phone. I check the time: 10:17 a.m. How can that be? I fell asleep last night sometime before ten, which means I’ve slept for more than twelve hours. Still, when I begin trying to move my leaden limbs, I feel like I’ve been hit by a ten-ton truck, my insides smeared along the Kennedy.

  My phone rings, breaking the silence with Beyoncé’s latest, which forces me into action by answering to shut it up.

  “Good morning, birthday girl,” my friend Jordan enthuses while I inwardly groan.

  Oh, right. I’m thirty-five today. Somehow I forgot all that with the news of losing my job and my fiancé in the span of a few hours.

  “Good morning,” I reply groggily.

  “You sound awful,” says Jordan, and I can feel her frowning over the phone. “Did you already start celebrating last night?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Though this morning resembles a bad hangover. “I’m just waking up.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. Just confirming that we’re still on for Adobo Grill at eight tonight?”

  Oh my god—my birthday dinner tonight. After yesterday, there is nothing to celebrate and the absolute last thing I feel like doing is going out. But begging off would require an explanation and since my grief-filled brain can’t form an excuse fast enough, I dully respond, “Uh-huh.”

  “Can’t wait to see you and celebrate!” Her cheerfulness sharpens my heartbreak.

  “Same here,” I say, not meaning it.

  “Ugh. You sound terrible. You better get some coffee in you, girl.”

  “Yes, I’ll get on that.”

  “Love ya! See you tonight.” Jordan hangs up taking her cheerfulness with her.

  Yes. Coffee. It can’t cure all my problems, but it can cure at least one. I’m so drained I’d probably go back to sleep if I didn’t have to figure out the next chapter of my life. Of course, this realization makes me want to pull the covers over my head, which I do, and never come out.

  Argh.

  But that’s not who I am and it’s not who I plan to become, so I give myself a sad pep talk. Okay, these are just some setbacks. Some major setbacks, true, but I’ve never been one to give up. I can’t let Neil get the best of me. I realize though that once I get out of bed there are painful steps to take. There is a wedding to cancel. There is job hunting to do. There is a birthday dinner to attend.

  There is the fact that I am thirty-five years old and my life has crumbled around me.

  What do I do first?

  It’s Saturday, my long run morning. Normally, I hate skipping a workout since I used to always be training for something—the Chicago marathon or the occasional sprint triathlon—although the last few months, it’s all been for seamlessly fitting into my wedding dress. So though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, considering the uncontrollable downward trajectory my life took yesterday, I also feel that I should stick to whatever constants I still have in my life. Mustering all my strength, I push the covers off me and roll out of bed. I pull my meticulously highlighted blond hair into a ponytail, throw on the requisite running gear, lace up my shoes, and am out the door before I can second-guess myself.

  THE LATE MORNING May sun does little to lift my mood as I head toward Lincoln Park, promising myself that for an hour, I’ll try to forget that I’m Allison James—the thirty-five-year-old, unemployed, former fiancée.

  As I make my way to the end of Dearborn nearing the Lincoln Memorial, there’s a group of people that on closer inspection turns out to be a bridal party getting their photos taken. I look to where the smiling maid of honor is standing next to the smiling bride and fixing something in the bride’s hair. Tears sting my eyes and my chest threatens to explode and I want to shout at the universe, Oh, come on! as I veer toward the lake-front to avoid them.

  It was my maid of honor who inadvertently introduced me to Neil. Stacey had invited me to a Cubs game when one of her friends secured a box (even though, in my opinion, it’s usually more fun in the bleachers), and Neil was a friend of the friend who had the box. Neil was the type of guy Wrigleyville attracts. He was good-looking in a clean-cut way with closely cropped light brown hair and warm brown eyes that crinkled slightly when he smiled. He was fit, but not obsessively so. He golfed and occasionally played volleyball at the lakefront in the summer, though he admitted he preferred watching sports to actually doing them. We ended up sitting next to each other and spent the entire game talking about everything—movies, music, The Amazing Race, favorite Chicago spots, our jobs (he worked in sales for a sports marketing company; I was a PR account manager), our friends, our families, and even childhood pets (his was a female turtle named Steve). I was completely taken in by his friendly demeanor, lopsided grin, and honest face (how ironic, all things considered). When I accidentally swallowed my beer too quickly and got a terrible case of hiccups, he tried helping me with all the tricks in the book. “Hold your breath. Here, we’ll have a contest.” Yet, he kept making such ridiculous faces while he held his breath that I would end up laughing and hiccupping even more. Then he tried to scare me, but trying to do so at a rowdy baseball game was near impossible. The only thing that seemed to cure them was when he asked for my phone number.

  Our relationship progressed easily and quickly, and within a year we were living together in my condo and planning our future. From the first date until yesterday, everything about our relationship had felt so simple and right—so how could it have all gone wrong?

  And, Stacey, of all people? I could understand it if maybe he went for someone completely different, but Stacey also works in PR and is physically another version of me—five foot seven, blond (although even more bottled than I am), and a gym-honed size four.

  And he couldn’t have possibly chosen her because of her personality. The woman is insanely demanding. Whenever we go out, she wants to pick the restaurant or bar and usually picks one with no consideration for others’ finances. God forbid if any service is less than stellar because she’s a stingy tipper (when she tips) and always wants to complain to the manager. She was one of those customers I feared when I worked in retail during high school. Though it was exactly for these reasons that I asked her to be my maid of honor, hoping her forceful personality would help keep the wedding day schedule on course.
Sure, she’s funny and fine in conversation, but aren’t all PR people? That’s our job.

  So the only thing I can think of, and the thought makes me ill, is that she must be really, really good in bed. I would give her that. Not that I don’t have my own tricks, but Neil and I were together for a long time. Things got comfortable. The sexy chemises I always wore to bed at some point turned into flannel pajamas (but in my defense, Chicago winters are brutal!). The stress of wedding planning took up a lot of our free time, and our most in-depth discussions became centered around issues such as which font looked best on the save-the-date cards. But everyone knows that’s just wedding planning and every couple goes through it. So why didn’t we survive? What was wrong with us? Or more to the point—what is wrong with me?

  This last thought sucks the air right out of me, and I stop running. Spying a nearby bench, I collapse onto it, rest my forehead on my hands, and let the tears silently spill.

  I am not a demanding person. All I asked from life was to have a nice job I was good at, find a nice guy to settle down with and have our nice family, and then to live our nice happily-ever-after preferably in a suburb with good public schools. Since many of my high school and college friends have surpassed me in almost all these areas, clearly, the flaw is with me.

  Suddenly I feel someone sit next to me, and a voice says, “I’ll be your boyfriend if you want?”

  I look up to find a teenage boy smirking at me. Judging from the eyeliner and black clothing, I assume he must be an art student at Columbia or the Art Institute.

  Well, okay, maybe I demand a nice guy in my age bracket.

  Feeling ridiculous to be caught out crying on a park bench, I smile politely at him before standing and taking off in a slow, sad jog toward home to get started on the depressing task of piecing my life back together.

  LOST IN MY thoughts on my way home, I run into a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk and almost fall over. Great, I might as well add a broken limb on top of everything else falling apart in my life. I straighten up the sign and see that it’s advertising a new coffeehouse that opened a couple days ago in my Gold Coast neighborhood.